


Wilted Flowers

by God217



Category: Danny Phantom
Genre: Mentions of pain/suffering, he dies but he's fine, mentions of death/vaguely implied desired death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:34:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24984646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/God217/pseuds/God217
Summary: How long has he been in this hospital? Months? Years? Sense of time doesn't exist here. There is only silence, save for the beeping of the monitor next to him. Emptiness, and wilted flowers on his nightstand.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 41





	Wilted Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> I love the headcanon that halfas die when they turn. It's so deliciously angsty. Please enjoy some sad Vlad because my simp butt has a new hyperfixation!

There is silence in his room.

A silence he's become dreadfully accustomed to. No sounds save for his shallow breathing, and the beeping of the machine beside him that's monitoring his heartbeat.

Slow. Even.

Beep... beep... beep...

He barely registers it anymore. How long has it been since he got here?

Weeks? Months?

Years, even?

Sense of time has all but vanished for him, the little window at the faraway wall he can barely see the only indication that the rest of the world even still exists.

Sometimes the sky is light. Sometimes it's dark. That's all he knows.

Dark. Light. Dark.

Accompanied by that stupid beeping.

Sometimes it rains. Storms. Sometimes it doesn't.

He can't move to get up and see. Even if he weren't attached to several machines, he'd be too weak to make it all the way. His body just isn't doing what he wants it to anymore.

When was the last time he sat up?

He doesn't know. The flowers on his nightstand, gifts from his last visitors, they've long wilted and withered away, dry petals covering the tabletop around them, forming a brown, shriveled pile in front of the one photograph he has of his friends.

His... friends.

Some friends they are.

He was worried, at first. When they didn't come anymore. Worried that something had happened to them that had caused them to be unable to see him.

But with every passing day, it's become more and more clear that they just...

They just stopped coming.

Without a word.

Without goodbye.

If anything had happened, they would've told him so. Sent a message. At least a post card.

But there's nothing.

It must've been months, at least. Just like his flowers, the leaves outside have dried and fallen off their trees, drifted around in the haunting winds rattling his windowsill every now and again, indicating late fall. 

The flakes of snow that followed have proven it to have been winter.

He's slept a while, too. A long while.

It's summer now again, at least he thinks it is.

Is it the next summer, or were there years inbetween? It's hard to tell. If someone told him, he's forgotten.

And all this time nobody ever came.

Oh, the nurses did. The doctors did. He's had tests and operations and who even knows what they experimented on him with, but all he can remember is a vague sensation of discomfort and painkiller-induced sleep.

And when he wakes, there's nothing there except for a slow, even beeping sound and unbearable pain that just won't stop. A burning, disgustingly bubbling feeling, like his face is going to burst open at the seams. On some days it gets so bad that all he wants to do is use his fingernails to claw the skin off, to make it stop.

But he's so weak now, he can barely lift his arms.

Does it even matter?

He has no friends that care for him. No family.

Clearly, nobody would miss him.

It's a strange feeling, to lay in a hospital bed, alone and in pain, and realize just how insignificant you are; always have been.

Lonely.

Empty.

And nobody cares.

So why does he keep fighting, keep wanting to get better? For what?

A life of emptiness?

Maddie. It's Maddie he stays strong for. Tries to, at least. Surely she couldn't have voluntarily left him by himself. Surely she'd be out there waiting...

Surely.

If only he could see her one more time. Only once, that would be enough. Take her hand, even if she'd have to have an ectosuit on to protect herself from getting infected as well.

He'd never wish this fate on her. He just wants to see her.

Hold her.

But that dream never comes true. Because as much as he refuses to admit it, she's gone. Not coming back.

Dear sweet Maddie, she's abandoned him too. Not that he could ever hate her for it. But inside, he knows.

He's been abandoned.

And eventually, he admits defeat.

Vlad Masters is laying alone and still, in silence, in a sterile, white room; only a bed, a small window at a far off wall he can't reach, and a plethora of complex, yet useless machines.

On his nightstand, a photo of three young friends, and a vase with flowers so wilted, no one could even tell what they once were.

The air smells like disinfectant, medicine, and the faint, bittersweet and otherwordly stench of sickness.

Nothing can be heard save for the endless, monotone flatlining beep sound, indicating that his heart has stopped beating.

Then, his eyes open.


End file.
